An Honor Worth Defending

by Robison Wells

Dear Readers: I'm shocked and horrified by your behavior toward a good friend of mine. There has been much talk on this and other websites in the past week about Mr. Spencer McKay, friend to man and beast. Accusations have been made, and reputations have been impugned. Frankly, I expected more from you people--you should all be ashamed of yourselves.

Lest there be any confusion: Spencer Fielding McKay is as real as you or me. He's as real as the smirk on Jeff's face, or the baby in Julie's womb, or the turkeys in Sariah's flocks. What's next, people? Are you going to accuse Julie's guest blogger Lauren of being a blogging Snuffleupagus? Is Kerry's daughter Hillary a literary Polkaroo? I think not.

For shame.

Let me tell you a little about Spencer--Spence, as I like to call him.

Spence is the descendant of Welsh immigrants, Gwen and Gawain Walsh, who left their home country and journeyed to Zion. Once here, Brigham Young sent them south, charging them to start a Mormon colony at the confluence of the Fremont River and Muddy Creek. They called this home New American Perfeddwlad, Abercymertwrafon. Shortly after, a second family was sent: Hank and Susie McKay, who renamed the town Hanksville, purchased Gwen and Gawain's only daughter (Gwen II: The Revenge), and then sent the Welsh couple packing.

It was from these torrid roots that Spence emerges. He's acutely aware of the human condition because he's lived it! Yes, he's human, and as real as you or me!

Growing up, Spence tried to fit in, despite his obvious differences. At recess, while the other kids hopscotched and four-squared, Spence often found himself sitting beneath a tree, writing poems about his feelings. By age ten, he'd been hospitalized eleven times.

After what Spence now only refers to as The Sloppy Joe Incident, he left the school and continued his studies at home. He learned philosophy at the knee of his grandfather, Professor Julio Iglesias McKay, and in the kitchen he watched his grandmother beat the indentured servants. ("Oh, my Nana!" Spence once recounted to me fondly. "She'd send out letters to Scandinavia, offering passage to America if they'd merely pay off the debt with housework. My, how'd she'd beat those Swedes!")

But his writing mentor wasn't to be found around the house. Every summer Spence would sneak out the bedroom window, shimmy down the drainpipe, and run into town where he'd break into the library, immerse himself in the masters, and then hurry home before dawn. On his eighteenth birthday, that library burned to the ground--he had no need of it anymore.

Yes, Spencer McKay is real. He's as real as Jeff or Stephanie or Julie. (More real than Sariah, probably.) He's as real as the joy in the eyes of a new mother as she holds her newborn babe, or as the anger in the eyes of a mother as she see's her toddler has dumped all the Cheerios on the floor, or as the the resigned depression in the eyes of a mother as she discovers her baby has grown up to be a software salesman.

Hath not Spencer McKay eyes? If you prick him, doth he not bleed? If you tickle him, doth he not laugh? If you poison him, doth he not die? And if you wrong him--and you'd best remember this--doth he not seek revenge? Dothn't he, Jeff?

Spencer McKay is my friend, and I'd ask you not to insult him by questioning his reality. For shame.